Sharon Tate

by Andrew Yorke

  Contents

  Sharon Tate

  01 Echo

  02 Dreams

  03 Friends

  04 Nature

  05 Maturity

  06 Unknown

  07 Expectations

  08 Image

  09 Uncommon

  10 Doll

  11 Scent

  12 Insight

  13 Mankind

  14 Echoes

  Sharon Tate

  Dedicated without exception

  Echo

  ‘Flickers of light in the night. Always a hell of a sight.’

  AS THE PLANE slowly pushed through the sky, its pilot could not help but observe the grounds below. ‘What all have I seen?’

  Los Angeles. He always thought of its sunshine. New York and its northerly gusts. There were always more lights in New York at night. The unforgettable antique charm of a small town in Italy from several years ago.

  On this evening, he found himself in Dallas, Texas, gliding towards its centre. Tall buildings occasionally punctured the skyline but the city still remained spacious. The pilot looked down to see children running in the streets. An older woman holding what appeared to be a young infant.

  ‘I miss my Grandmother.’

  The pilot noticed a hospital ahead. Not large nor particularly impressive, but one that plucked a cord from his memory. He thought of his first born, eyes still shut, hand wrapped tightly around his finger. Below, he observed a small ant in a military uniform walking quickly through the parking lot and disappearing beyond the hospital doors.

  The military man stood near a window, slowly tracing his steps in the waiting room. Although refusing to sweat, his tension was obvious to anyone who took notice. He sported a moustache that appeared neat and thin. His uniform and body shared one trait—they both displayed few wrinkles.

  ‘I wonder if they're going to be OK,’ he pondered.

  Down several small hallways, one found a room dedicated to initiating life and nothing more. On this particular evening, a nineteen-year-old woman relentlessly shouted in pain. A nurse restrained the woman's hands and arms.

  ‘It's going to be OK. It's going to be all right, honey. You're almost there. You're almost there. Just keep going. I'm not going anywhere!’

  A doctor stood at the epicentre of the woman's pain and kept stating, ‘Push! Just give me one more solid push!’ A gentle breeze pushed through an open window, felt for an instant. Calming. It was all the motivation she needed.

  ‘Not until I hear an innocent cry. I have to keep going until I hear an innocent cry.’

  She thought of so much, but could remember very little when many years passed. ‘This is the moment,’ she thought. ‘This is the moment. This is the moment. This is the moment!’

  Her vision blurred and her hearing became muffled. The nurse relieved the pressure on her hands and arms.

  She breathed in the world slowly. It became more gentle.

  An innocent cry echoed against the walls.

  Dreams

  THE YOUNG INFANT slept quietly in her crib. Not a care in the world. Why would there be?

  The dreams started in a simple manner: flickers of light shaded by the hands of her much taller best friend. She liked this.

  The dreams evolved, with a few others like her best friend. None had the same smell of protection or comfort. Still, they would do something with their mouths that made her feel better. She tried doing it for them. It was still difficult.

  They didn't seem to mind.

  She then dreamt of another. He held her differently. It felt less comfortable, but still comforting. Secure. He smelled different too. Not of something sweet and innocent, but rather potent and reserved. Without moving her, he would rock both of them back and forth.

  Gently.

  She liked this too.

  Her most recent dream occurred casually but suddenly as she felt herself lifted from her recurring spot. Her eyes moved with purpose, but her lids remained shut. She felt a light, repetitive bounce. With each bounce, she thought of opening her eyes. She breathed in the air, and felt the scent of her best friend. There was no need. She was exactly where she wanted to be.

  As the bouncing began to slow down, a series of resonant tones escaped from her best friend. She did not pay it much attention at the time. She was more curious about the flickers of light. She wanted to know from where they came. She felt an immediate warmth and something visible through her tightly shut eyelids.

  She needed to see this.

  Her eyes opened to a world of something brand new. One really bright light hovered above. She saw many figures. Some of them even looked like her. Others were bigger than her, but not towering like her best friend. They moved a lot more quickly than the taller ones.

  Many of these taller ones moved with grace towards the young infant and her best friend, all of them doing that thing with their mouths. Another opportunity to see if she could do it for them as well.

  She knew she would this time.

  Her best friend moved her around and allowed these others to cloud the bright light temporarily. They would get very close to the young infant, and she did not mind. This was her chance to prove something to them. She knew she had to. She couldn't fully understand the origins of her motivation, but she cared very little. She suddenly wanted something new.

  Many of them began moving their mouths, directing comforting tones towards the young infant. The infant began to respond. First, she moved part of her mouth. For an instant, she tried covering her mouth in embarrassment. The tones of comfort from these others increased in stature. One of the others gently touched the young infant's hand. Instant, like a natural trigger from a gun, the young infant effortlessly smiled.

  The crowd went wild.

  She always remembered this dream.

  Friends

  THE YOUNG CHILD noticed the massive hallways as she walked with poise and silence. She wished to not awaken any demons, ghosts, or relatives. Not this time, at least.

  She walked with two others similar to her. One had hair like hers but slightly longer. The other had much shorter hair. It felt like her Father's moustache at times. She was always fascinated.

  The three ventured down the hallway, a faint light at its core. ‘What's down there?’ one of the them asked. As the young child skipped a few steps ahead of the other two, she inhaled something stale and cold. She didn't like this.

  ‘Let's go!’ she said excitedly.

  The other two quickly joined in this race.

  The hallway engulfed the young child as she continued her silent run. Her breathing became heavier, but she muffled it with ease. For an instant, she worried she would disappear. She jerked her head in both directions, seeing the others close behind. One was catching up to her. She liked this.

  The light became warmer and brighter, softly illuminating the ground below. Endless small objects moved gently through its atmosphere. They all moved together, floating, glowing like tiny snowflakes, then invisible outside the pool of light. She was the first to notice, but the last to interpret.

  ‘What's that?’ one said.

  ‘Not a bear!’ the other answered.

  The young child prompted with a moving smile. ‘What is that?’

  The three slowed in unison and stood next to these lifeless creatures. They encircled, but would not immediately touch. One of the children moved their hand towards the creatures, but pulled away quickly at the last second. The other placed her face just at the edge of the light.

  The young girl suddenly remembered her Mother.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said.

  The three continued moving around these creatures, impatiently waiting for sounds, smells, and other triggers. The one with longer hair breathed deeply and exhaled
a wind. The creatures responded.

  ‘They are moving! They move like bugs!’ one said.

  The young child tilted her head and watched one of the creatures move from the light. She watched it move like a fish without fear. It graced her nose; it tickled. She could not help but smile oddly and sneeze. The other two watched as the young girl hopped into the pool of light.

  The creatures danced around her with unity and haste, but appeared to quickly calm. The young girl moved her head with caution, as to not disturb the creatures. One of them touched the inside of her nose.

  The young child's laughter was brief but memorable to the one with Father's moustache.

  Nature

  THE YOUNG CHILD watched her world dismantle itself piece by piece.

  After placing her favourite dress into the giant bag, she watched as her Mother took it away. The pictures in the hallway were placed into giant boxes. Her Father's face became moist during the early hours of the day, his shirt soaked by mid-afternoon. The young child wondered why he took a bath in his clothes.

  With bare feet, she stood in the doorway of one of the rooms, her eyes roving its empty floors. Her Father, stretching his back, caught glance of her observations. He felt something in the air becoming stifled and thick. He knew it came from her.

  Her mouth caved in on itself slightly. His voice always shook the walls inside of her, different from the gentle whispers of her Mother. He placed his tools on the ground and stood beside her. The tall tower in her eyes slowly shrank to something that was just her size. Her mouth's tense frame loosened.

  He soothed his voice. ‘Honey, what's the matter?’

  Her gaze continued to sweep the floor, embracing what foundation remained. ‘Daddy, why do we have to move?’

  His eyes twitched. He picked her up, allowing the young child to tower over the world as he did. ‘Well, because your Father has to. And your Father doesn't want to leave you behind.’

  ‘I don't want to move.’ She spoke with naïve passion.

  He sighed, instinctively embracing her. ‘Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do.’

  ‘Why?’

  A small, notable cross remained on the wall next to the window. ‘Life is all about change. It will change, whether you want it to or not.’ He paused briefly. ‘But it's not that bad.’

  She watched as her Father's moustache smiled.

  ‘How?’ she thought aloud.

  Her Father brought her closer to the window. Yellow roses were sprinkled along the grass.

  ‘You will get to try many new and different things you haven't even thought of. Things that many little girls never get to do.’

  She stared at the roses. She had seen them many times before. Her eyes became cloudy.

  ‘What kinds of things?’ she asked softly.

  Her face fell naturally into its nesting position. She still held onto her Father with a firm grip. He noticed her sinking into sleep. His voice became softer and intoxicatingly deeper.

  ‘It'll be OK.’

  She dreamt of lights and yellow roses that night. Objects and colours she could never forget.

  Maturity

  HER EYES SHUT as she repeated it. ‘You can do this. You've done this before.’

  The photographer readied his camera quickly and focused on the job. An assembly of young children stood single-file, reflections of their parents' homes and status. Each dutifully moved into position flanked by grey, presenting themselves accordingly. He smiled as required, listened to parents' endless barrages, and snapped the photo. They were all the same.

  The young child walked into position and awaited the flash. The photographer noted her Mother's controlled confidence as she stood nearby.

  The young girl exhaled with forced relaxation. The photographer awaited the moment of capture.

  She blinked.

  Then he snapped the photo.

  The photographer readied his camera professionally and focused on the job. A line of adolescents stood, khakis, whites, and greys with Eisenhower haircuts. Each casually moved into position flanked by grey, presenting themselves accordingly. He spoke with each briefly, nodded as needed, and snapped the photo. Most of them were the same.

  A young girl walked into position and awaited the flash. The photographer noted her proper posture. Her eyes still hinted of anxiety.

  She blinked.

  Then he snapped the photo.

  The photographer readied his camera carefully and focused on the job. He took proper time to find the right angle and position, noting contours of shadows and available light. There were no assembly lines, children, or adolescents. Just a giant military missile standing at attention towards the sky. He would relax the model, check the shadows, and snap the photo.

  The young woman climbed the missile and positioned herself properly before a curtain of blue and white. She inhaled clean air and smiled briefly. The photographer noted her controlled confidence.

  She blinked.

  Then he snapped the photo. Her image was no longer her own.

  Unknown

  A YOUNGER MAN with odd features walked quickly down a series of well-lit corridors. ‘The boss is going to kill me,’ he said under his breath. His hands were full of papers. His life was full of thankless jobs. No one could ever remember his name. To relax, he inhaled his freshly lit cigarette, hanging carefully from his mouth.

  He was already running late, due to three secretaries misplacing five different, equally important documents. Scripts, shooting schedules, budget sheets, talent scout reports.

  He needed to be in several places at once.

  He noticed a few brunette models waiting for an audition. Their makeup was meticulous and clean. They sat and stood on either side of the hall. All but one exhaled stress-relieving tobacco into the air. Their faces bore the same familiar fear: Hollywood. It became temporarily hard to breathe.

  He turned the corner quickly, trying to observe the clock hanging from an adjacent hallway. His odd features caught up with him and his leg fastened onto an unseen object, sending him head first into the ground. The papers spilled in multiple directions. His cigarette bent in half on impact.

  The young woman sat in this corridor, alone, anxious, and distracted. Before this moment, she was fumbling through selected pages of a script, reciting lines in her mind constantly. She remembered her reflection in the mirror, reassuring herself. Her reassurance was fleeting with each impatient minute. The door next to her would open at any moment.

  She removed herself from stress and hurried down the corridor.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I'm fine. Just got my legs twisted up somehow.’

  She got down on her knees and assisted without provocation. The younger man rarely received such help. He inhaled. The scent was the only thing he could remember about her in later years.

  They traded friendly banter until they both got on their feet. He never talked with others like her.

  ‘Are you waiting for an audition?’ he asked.

  The door opened. An authoritative voice echoed throughout the corridor. Both understood the implications.

  ‘Well, thank you very much,’ he said, ‘and good luck.’

  She smiled without showing teeth, grabbed her script and entered the room. As the younger man disappeared into the distance, he overheard the commanding voice.

  ‘Who is this?’

  And the door closed.

  Expectations

  A HOUSE LAY IN THE HILLS of California, surrounded by greens, yellows, and browns. The wilderness provided a blanket of tranquillity, complementing the house's interior personality. Its creators promised a life of luxury and comfort. Common problems would be alleviated by wealth and privilege. Nothing bad would ever happen.

  Its first memories were warm, recalling various people coming through its doors. They would touch the walls in intrigue and compliment its tall ceilings. Inhabitants smiled and laughed. Some even danced. The rare sombre individual would retreat to
its inner havens.

  In one spontaneous moment, the house witnessed an act of violence. A scarred man with a moustache lay on its cold floor, lifeless. It was his own doing.

  Very soon after, individuals with hard shoes and emotionless faces discovered the scarred man. They moved him out on wheels and, without hesitation, cleaned up the mess he created. Once their job was finished, they piled out and closed its doors. Like nothing ever happened.

  Suddenly, the house felt empty and alone.

  It tried numerous times to attract new people, and many times it succeeded. The house would hide its scars as long as possible, but it would unavoidably confess. New people would try their best to accept its faults. Until they would pack up their lives and hurry out. Like nothing ever happened.

  One day, an eager lover brought the young woman through its doors. The house observed her in its windows and mirrors, noting her vivacious prance. Her eyes blinked with naïve fascination as the young man exposed its history.

  ‘This is where he died,’ he noted.

  Late one night, the young woman ventured through the house alone. It felt her bare feet silently journey through its hallways. As she walked into a larger room, a series of odd, unknown sounds appeared. She turned her head quickly, attempting to determine the source. Her eyes squinted and her body stiffened slightly.

  ‘Its demons always seemed to come out at night.’

  On this night, curiosity eventually overcame fear.

  The house watched her hands slowly and comfortably hug her face with exhaustion. She splashed water on her face and returned to bed.

  Like nothing ever happened.

  Image

  THE MOVIE CAMERA was assembled like so many before it. Bolts, screws, and latches attached themselves in syncopated rhythm and, within minutes, this camera had vision and a pulse.

  It moved from place to place. Some held it with control. Others felt far less responsible. It captured sequences of moments, its sight privy to individuals of all types. Many of these models held imperfections about which the camera could not lie. It cared very little. Its memories would be removed and replaced, reinventing itself.